"Yes," said the doctor slightly;—"the usual combinations of Interest and Inclination. I wonder if we are exceptions, Linden?"
"Theusualcombination is not, perhaps, just the best,—it is a nice matter for a man to judge in his own case how far the proportions are rectified."
"He can't do it. Human machinery can't do it. Can you measure the height of those waves while they dazzle your eyes with gold and purple as they do now?"
"Nay—but I can tell how much they do or do not throw me out of my right course."
"What course are you on now, Linden?" said the doctor with his old-fashioned assumption of carelessness, dismissing the subject.
"Now?" Mr. Linden repeated. "Do you mean in studies, travels, or conversation?"
"In conversation, you have as usual brought me to a point! I mean—if I mean anything,—the other two; but I mean nothing, unless you like."
"I do like. Just now, then, I am in the vacation before the last year of my Seminary life,—for the rest, I am on my way to Germany."
"Finish your course there, eh?" said the doctor. "Why man, I thought you had found the 'four azure chains' long ago."
"No, not to finish my course,—if I am kept in Germany more than a few weeks, it will not be by 'azure' chains," said Mr. Linden.
"That it will not!" said one of the young men coming up, fresh from the tea-table and his cigar. "Azure chains?—pooh!—Linden breaksthemas easy as Samson did the green withs. How biblical it makes one to be in company with such a theologian! But I shouldn't wonder if he was going to Europe to join some order of friars—he'll find nothing monastic enough for him in America."
"Mistaken your man, Motley!" said the doctor; who for reasons of his own did not choose to quit the conversation. "The worstIhave to say of him is, that if he spends an other year in Germany his hearers will never be able to understand him!"
"Mistaken him!" said Mr. Motley—"at this time of day,—that'll do!Where did you get acquainted with him, pray?"
"Once when I had the management of him," said the doctor coolly. "There is no way of becoming acquainted with a man, like that."
"Once when youthoughtyou had," said Mr. Motley. "Well, where was it?—in a dark passage when you got to the door first?"
"Whenever I have had the misfortune to be in a dark passage with him, he hasshewedme the door," said the doctor gravely but gracefully, in his old fashion admirably maintained.
"If one of you wasn't Endecott Linden," said Mr. Motley throwing the end of his cigar overboard, "I should think you had made acquaintance on a highway robbery."
"Instead of which, it was in the peaceful town of Pattaquasset," saidMr. Linden.
"Permit me to request the reason of Mr. Motley's extraordinary guess," said the doctor.
"So natural to say where you've met a man—if there's no reason against it," said the other coolly. "But you don't say it was in Pattaquasset, doctor? Wereyouever there?"
"Depends entirely on the decision of certain questions in metaphysics,"—said the doctor. "As for instance, whether anything that is,is—and the matter of personal identity, which you know is doubtful. I know theappearanceof the place, Motley."
"Are there any pretty girls there?" said Mr. Motley, carelessly, but keeping his eye rather on Mr. Linden than the doctor.
"Mr. Linden can answer better than I," said Dr. Harrison, whose eye also turned that way, and whose tone changed somewhat in spite of himself. "There are none there that could not answer any question about Mr. Linden."—
"By the help of a powerful imagination," said the person spoken of. Mr.Motley looked from one to the other.
"I don't know what to make of either of you," he said. "Why doctor, Endecott Linden is a—a mere—I don't like to call him hard names, and I can't call him soft ones! However—to be sure—the cat may look at the king, even if his majesty won't return the compliment. Well—you and I were never thought hard-hearted, so I'll tell you my story. Did it ever happen—orseemto happen, doctor—that you,seemingto be in Pattaquasset, went—not to church—but along the road therefrom? Preferring the exit to the entrance—as you and I too often do?"
"It has seemed to happen to me,"—said Dr. Harrison, as if mechanically.
"Well—George Alcott and I—do you know George?—no great loss—we were kept one Sunday in that respectable little town by a freshet. Whether it was one of those rains that bring down more things from the sky than water, I don't know,—George declared it was. If it wasn't, we made discoveries."
"If you and George both used your eyes, there must have been discoveries," said Mr. Linden. "Did you take notice how green the grass looked after the rain? and that when the clouds were blown away the sun shone?"
"You're not all theology yet!" said Mr. Motley. "Be quiet—can't you? I'm not talking to you. We were sauntering down this same road, doctor—after church,—falling in with the people, so that we could see them and be taken for churchgoers. But there wasn't much to see.—Then George declared that here was the place where Linden had secluded himself for nobody knows what,—then we fell naturally into lamenting the waste of such fine material, and conned over various particulars of his former life and prospects—the great promise of past years, the present melancholy mania to make money and be useful. Upon which points George and I fought as usual. Then we grew tired of the subject and of the mud—turned short about—and beheld—what do you suppose, doctor?"
"How far you had come for nothing?"
"Imagine," said Mr. Motley, taking out a fresh cigar and a match and proceeding to put them to their respective uses,—"Imagine the vision that appeared to Balaam's ass—and how the ass felt."
"Nay, that we cannot do," said Mr. Linden. "You tax us too far."
"In both requisitions—" added the doctor.
"There stood," said Mr. Motley, removing his cigar and waving it gracefully in one hand. "There stood close behind us on the mud—she could not have been in it—an immortal creature, in mortal merino! We—transfixed, mute—stepped aside right and left to let her pass,—I believe George had presence of mind enough to take off his hat; and she—'severe in youthful beauty', glorious in youthful blushes—walked on, looking full at us as she went. But such a look! and from such eyes!—fabulous eyes, doctor, upon my honour. Then we saw that the merino was only a disguise. Imagine a search warrant wrapped up in moonbeams—imagine the blending of the softest sunset reflection with a keen lightning flash,—and after all you have only words—not those eyes. Linden!—seems to me your imagination serves you better here,—your own eyes are worth looking at!"
"It has had more help from you," Mr. Linden said, controlling the involuntary unbent play of eye and lip with which he had heard the description.
"Well, George raved about them for a month," Mr. Motley went on, "and staid in Pattaquasset a whole week to see them again—which he didn't; so he made up his mind that they had escaped in the train of events—or of ears, and now seeks them through the world. Some day he will meet them in the possession of Mrs. Somebody—and then hang himself." And Mr. Motley puffed out clouds of smoke thereupon.
"According to your account, he could not do better," said the doctor cynically.
"I suppose the world would get on, if he did," said Mr. Motley with philosophical coolness. "But the queerity was," he added, removing the cigar once more, "what made her look at us so? Did she know by her supernatural vision that we had not been to church?—for I must say, Linden, she looked like one of your kind. Or were her unearthly ears charmed by the account of your unearthly perfections?—for George and I were doing the thing handsomely."
"It was probably that," said Mr. Linden. "Few people, I think, can listen to your stories unmoved."
"Hang it," said Mr. Motley, "I wish I could!—This vixenish old craft is behaving with a great deal too much suavity to suit my notions. I don't care about making a reverence to every wave I meet if they're going to tower up at this rate. But I guess you're right, Linden—the description of you can be made quite captivating—and her cheeks glowed like damask roses with some sort of inspiration. However, as George pathetically and poetically remarks,
'I only know she came and went!'—
the last part of which illustrious example I shall follow. Linden, if any story don't moveyou, you're no better than the North Cape."
"Can you stand it?"—asked the doctor suddenly of his remaining companion.
"Yes—I have known Motley a long time."
"Pshaw! no, I mean this wind."
"I beg your pardon! Yes—for anything I have felt of it yet."
"If you will excuse me, I will get something more on. I have come from a warmer part of the world lately."
The doctor disappeared, and found something in another part of the boat to detain him.
Dr. Harrison had stood one conversation, but he had no mind to stand a second. He did not think it necessary. If by any possibility he could have put himself on board of another steamer, or packet; or have leaped forward into France, or back into America!—he would have done it. But since he must see Mr. Linden from time to time in their present situation, he contrived that that should be all. Even that was as seldom and as little as possible; the artnot to see, Dr. Harrison could practise to perfection, and did now; so far as he could without rendering it too obviously a matter of his own will. That would not have suited his plans. So he saw his one-time friend as often as he must, and then was civil invariably, civil with the respect which was Dr. Harrison's highest degree of civility and which probably in this instance was true and heartfelt; but he was cool, after his slight gay surface manner, and even when speaking kept at a distance. For the rest, it is notable, even in so small a space as the walls of a steamer shut in, how far apart people can be that have no wish to be near. Days passed that saw at the utmost only a bow exchanged between these two; many days that heard but one or two words. Mr. Linden's own plans and occupations, the arrangement of his time, helped to further the doctor's wish. There was many an hour when Dr. Harrison would not have found him if he had tried, but when they were really together the non-intercourse was the doctor's fault. For all that had been, Mr. Linden was still his friend,—he realized more and more every day the value of the prize for which Dr. Harrison had played and lost; and pity had made forgiveness easy. He was ready for all their old kindly intercourse, but seeing the doctor shunned him there was nothing to do but follow the lead. Sometimes indeed they came together for a few minutes—were thrown so—in a way that was worse than hours of talk.
The Vulcan had made about half her passage, and a fair, fresh morning had brought most of the passengers on deck. Mr. Linden was not there, but the rest were grouped and watching the approach of a homeward bound steamer; when as she neared them Mr. Linden too came on deck. It was to talk with the Captain however, not the passengers—or to consult with him, for the two stood together speaking and smiling. "You can try," Dr. Harrison heard the Captain say; and then he lifted his trumpet and hailed—the other Captain responding. Still the steamer came on, nearer and nearer,—still the two on the deck of the Vulcan stood side by side; till at a certain point, just where the vessels were at the nearest, Captain Cyclops gave his companion a little signal nod. And Mr. Linden stepping forward a pace or two, lent the whole power of his skill and strength to send a despatch on board the Polar Bear. The little packet sped from his hand, spinning through the air like a dark speck. Not a person spoke or moved—Would it reach?—would it fail?—until the packet, just clearing the guards, fell safe on the deck of the other vessel, was picked up by her Captain and proclaimed through the speaking trumpet. Slightly raising his hat then, Mr. Linden drew back from his forward position; just as a shout of delighted acclaim burst from both the boats.
"That went with a will, I tellyou!" said Captain Cyclops with a little nod of his head.
"I say, Linden!" spoke out one of the young men—"is that your heart you sent home?"
"I feel it beating here yet," Mr. Linden answered. But just how much of it he carried back to his state-room for the next hour has never been ascertained. Society had no help from Dr. Harrison for more than that length of time. Neither could proximity nor anything else make him, visibly, aware of Mr. Linden's existence during the rest of the day.
Mr. Linden knew the doctor too well—and it maybe said, knew Faith too well—to be much surprised at that. If he could have spared Dr. Harrison the pain of seeing his little air-sent missive, he would have done it; but the letter could go but at one time, and from one side of the ship—and just there and then Dr. Harrison chose to be. But though the sort of growing estrangement which the doctor practised sprang from no wish nor feeling but his own, yet Mr. Linden found it hard to touch it in any way. Sometimes he tried—sometimes he left it for Time's touching, which mends so many things. And slowly, and gently,thattouch did work—not by fading one feeling but by deepening another. Little as Dr. Harrison had to do with his friend, almost every one else in the ship had a good deal, and the place which Mr. Linden soon took in the admiration as well as the respect of the passengers, could not fail to come to the doctor's notice. Men of very careless life and opinions pruned their language in his presence,—those who lived but for themselves, and took poor care of what they lived for, passed him reverently on some of his errands through the ship. Dr. Harrison had never lived with him before, and little as they saw each other, you could as well conceal the perfume of a hidden bunch of violets—as well shut your senses to the spring air—as could the doctor shut his to the beauty of that well-grown Christian character. The light of it shone, and the influence of it went forth through all the ship.
"What a strange, incomprehensible, admirable fellow, Linden is!" said Mr. Motley one day when he and the doctor were sunning themselves in profound laziness on deck. It was rather late Sunday afternoon, and the morning service had left a sort of respectful quietness behind it.
"He must be!" said the doctor with a slight indescribable expression,—"if at this moment you can be roused to wonder at anything."
Mr. Motley inclined his head with perfect suavity in honour of the doctor's words.
"It's a glorious thing to lie here on deck and do nothing!" he said, extending his elegantly clad limbs rather more into the distance. "How fine the breeze is, doctor—what do you think of the day, as a whole?"
"Unfinished, at present,—"
"Well—" said Mr. Motley,—"take that part of it which you with such precision term 'this moment',—what do you think of it as it appears here on deck?"
"Sunny—" said the doctor,—"and we are flies. On the whole I think it's a bore, Motley."
"What do you think of the Black Hole of Calcutta, in comparison?" saidMr. Motley closing his eyes.
"The difference is, thatthatwould have been an insufferable bore."
Mr. Motley smiled—stroking his chin with affectionate fingers. "On the whole," he said, "I think you're right in that position. What do you suppose Linden's about at this moment?"
"Is he your ward?" said the doctor.
"He's down below—" said Mr. Motley with a significant pointing of his train of remarks. "By which I don't mean! that he's left this planet—for truly, when he does I think it will be in a different direction; but he's down in the steerage—trying to get some of those creatures to follow him."
"Which way?"
"You and George Alcott have such a snappish thread in you!" said Mr.Motley yawning—"only it sits better on George than it does on you. ButI like it—it rather excites me to be snubbed. However, here comesLinden—so I hope they'll not follow himthisway."
"This way" Mr. Linden himself did not come, but chose another part of the deck for a somewhat prolonged walk in the seabreeze. The doctor glanced towards him, then moved his chair slightly, so as to put the walker out of his range of vision.
"He's a good fellow enough," he remarked carelessly. "You were pleased to speak of him just now as 'incomprehensible'—may I ask how he has earned a title to that?" The tone was a little slighting.
"Take the last instance—" said Mr. Motley,—"you yourself were pleased to pronounce the steerage a more insufferable bore than the deck—yet he chooses it,—and not only on Sundays. I don't believe there's a day that he don't go down there. He's popular enough without it—'tisn't that. And nobody knows it—one of the sailors told me. If he was a medico, like you, doctor, there'd be less wonder—but as it is!—" and Mr. Motley resigned himself again to the influence of the sunshine. A moment's meditation on the doctor's part, to judge by his face, was delectable.
"There isn't any sickness down there?" he said then.
"Always is in the steerage—isn't there?" said Mr. Motley,—"I don't know!—the surgeon can tell you."
"There's no occasion,—" said the doctor with a little haughtiness. "He knows who I am."
And Dr. Harrison too resigned himself, apparently, to the sunny influences of the time and was silent.
But as the sun went down lower and lower, Mr. Motley roused himself up and went off to try the effect upon his spirits of a little cheerful society,—then Mr. Linden came and took the vacant chair.
"How beautiful it is!" he said, in a tone that was half greeting, half meditation. The start with which Dr. Harrison heard him was skilfully transformed into a natural change of position.
"Beautiful?—yes," said he. "Has the beauty driven Motley away?"
"He is gone.—Your waves are very dazzling to-night, doctor."
"They are helping us on," said the doctor looking at them. "We shall be in after two days more—if this holds."
Helping us on—perhaps the thought was not unqualified in Mr. Linden's mind, for he considered that—or something else—in grave silence for a minute or two.
"Dr. Harrison," he said suddenly, "you asked me about my course—I wish you would tell me yours. Towards what—for what. You bade me call myself a friend—may I use a friend's privilege?" He spoke with a grave, frank earnestness.
The doctor's face shewed but a small part of the astonishment which this speech raised. It shewed a little.
"I can be but flattered!—" he said with something of the old graceful medium between play and earnest. "You ask me what I am hardly wise enough to answer you. I am going to Paris, and you to Germany. After that, I really know about as much of one 'course' as of the other."
"My question referred, not to the little daily revolutions, but to the great life orbit. Harrison, what is yours to be?"
Evidently it was an uneasy question. Yet the power of influence—or of associations—was such that Dr. Harrison did not fling it away. "I remember," he said, not without some bitterness of accent—"you once did me the honour to profess to care."
"I do care, very much." And one of the old looks, that Dr. Harrison well remembered—said the words were true.
"You do me more honour than I do myself," he said, not so lightly as he meant to say it. "I do not care. I see nothing to care for."
"You refuse to see it—" Mr. Linden said gently and sorrowfully.
Dr. Harrison's brow darkened—it might be with pain, for Mr. Linden's words were the echo of others he had listened to—not long ago. In a moment he turned and spoke with an impulse—of bravado? Perhaps he could not have defined, and his companion could not trace.
"I refuse to see nothing!—but I confess to you I see nothing distinctly. What sort of an 'orbit' would you propose to me?"
The tone sounded frank, and certainly was not unkind. Mr. Linden's answer was in few words—"'To them who by patient continuance in well doing seek for glory and honour and immortality, eternal life'."
Dr. Harrison remained a little while with knitted brow looking down at his hands, which certainly were in an order to need no examination. Neither was he examining them. When he looked up again it was with the frankness and kindliness both more defined. Perhaps, very strange to his spirit, a little shame was at work there.
"Linden," he said, "I believe in you! and if ever I enter upon an orbit of any sort, I'll take up yours. But—" said he relapsing into his light tone, perhaps of intent,—"you know two forces are necessary to keep a body going in one—and I assure you there is none, of any sort, at present at work upon me!"
"You are mistaken," said Mr. Linden,—"there are two."
"Let's hear—" said the doctor without looking at him.
"In the first place your conscience, in the second your will."
"You have heard of such things as both getting stagnant for want of use—haven't you?"
"I have heard of the one being half choked by the other," said Mr.Linden:
"It's so warm this afternoon that I can't contradict you. What do you want me to do, Linden?"
"Let conscience do its work—and then you do yours."
A minute's silence.
"You do me honour, to believe I have such a thing as a conscience,"—said the doctor again a little bitterly. "I didn't use to think it, myself."
He was unaware that it was that very ignored principle which had forced him to make this speech.
"My dear friend—" Mr. Linden began, and he too paused, looking off gravely towards the brightening horizon. "Then do yourself the honour to let conscience have fair play," he went on presently,—"it is too delicate a stream to bear the mountain torrents of unchecked will and keep its clearness."
"Hum!—there's no system of drainage that ever I heard of that will apply up in those regions!" said the doctor, after again a second's delay to speak. "And you are doing my will too much honour now—I tell you it is in a state of stagnation, and I don't at present see any precipice to tumble down. When I do, I'll promise to think of you—if that thought isn't carried away too.—Come, Linden!" he said with more expression of kindliness than Mr. Linden had seen certainly during all the voyage before,—"I believe in you, and I will!—though I suppose my words do seem to you no better than the very spray of those torrents you are talking about. Will you walk?—Motley put me to sleep, but you have done one good thing—you have stirred me to desire action at least."
It was curious, how the power of character, the power of influence, had borne down passion and jealousy—even smothered mortification and pride—and made the man of the world speak truth. Mr. Linden rose—yet did not immediately begin the walk; for laying one hand on the doctor's shoulder with a gesture that spoke both regard and sorrow and entreaty, he stood silently looking off at the colours in the west.
"Dr. Harrison," he said, "I well believe that your mother and mine are dear friends in heaven—God grant that we may be, too!"
Then they both turned, and together began their walk. It lasted till they were summoned to tea; and from that time till they got in there was no more avoidance of his old friend by the doctor. His manner was changed; if he did not find enjoyment in Mr. Linden's society he found somewhat else which had value for him. There was not again a shade of dislike or of repulsion; and when they parted on landing, though it might be that there lay in Dr. Harrison's secret heart a hope that he might never see Mr. Linden again, there lay with it also, as surely, a secret regret.
Now all that Faith knew of this for a long time, was from a newspaper; where—among a crowd of unimportant passengers in the Vulcan's list—she read the names of Dr. Harrison and J. E. Linden.
Faith and her mother sat alone at breakfast. About a fortnight of grave quiet had followed after the joyous month that went before, with little enlivening, few interruptions. Without, the season had bloomed into greater luxuriance,—within, the flowers now rarely came; and Faith's flowerless dress and belt and hair, said of themselves that Mr. Linden was away. Roses indeed peeped through the windows, and thrust their heads between the blinds, but no one invited them in.
Not so peremptorily as the roses—and yet with more assurance of welcome—Reuben Taylor knocked at the door during breakfast time; scattering the abstract musings that floated about the coffee-pot and mingled with its vapoury cloud.
"Sit down, Reuben," said Faith jumping up;—"there's a place for you,—and I'll give you a plate." To which Reuben only replied, "A letter, Miss Faith!"—and putting it in her hands went off with quick steps. On the back of it was written, up in one corner—"Flung on board the Polar Bear, by a strong hand, from steamship Vulcan, half way across."
There was no need of flowers now truly in the house, for Faith stood by the table transformed into a rose of summer joy.
"Mother!" she exclaimed,—"It's from sea—half way across."—
"From sea!—half way across—" her mother repeated. "Why child, what are you talking about? You don't mean that Mr. Linden's contrived to make a letter swim back here already, do you?"
Faith hardly heard. A minute she stood, with her eyes very like what Mr. Motley had graphically described them to be, breaking the seal with hurried fingers,—and then ran away. The breakfast table and Mrs. Derrick waited—they waited a long time before Faith came back to eat a cold breakfast, which tasted of nothing but sea-breezes and was therefore very strengthening. The strengthening effect went through the day; there was a fresh colour in Faith's face. Fifty times at least the "moonbeams" of her eyes saw a "strong hand" throw her packet across the sea waves that separated the two steamers; the master of the "Polar Bear" might guess, but Faith knew, that a strong heart had done it as well. And when her work was over Faith put a rose in her belt in honour of the day, and sat down to her books, very happy.
The books were engrossing, and it was later than usual when she came down stairs to get tea, but Mrs. Derrick was out. That wasn't very strange. Faith went through the little routine of preparation,—then she took another book and sat down by the sweet summer air of the open window to wait. By and by Mrs. Derrick came slowly down the road, opened and shut the gate with the same air of abstracted deliberateness, and came up the steps looking tired and flushed. In the porch Faith met and kissed her.
"Where have you been now, mother? tea's ready."
"Pretty child!" was Mrs. Derrick's answer, "how glad I am you got that letter this morning!"
Faith smiled;shedidn't forget it, but it was not to be expected that it should be quite so present to Mrs. Derrick's mind. Yet almost at the same instant she felt that her mother had some particular reason for saying that just then.
"Where have you been, mother?"
"Up to Squire Stoutenburgh's," said Mrs. Derrick, putting herself wearily in the rocking-chair,—"and they were all out gone—to Pequot to spend the day. So I lost my labour."
Gently Faith stood before her and took off her bonnet. "What did you go there for, mother?"
"I wanted to see him—" said Mrs. Derrick. "Squire Deacon's been here,Faith."
"Mother! Is he back again?—What for?"
"Settle here and live, I suppose. He's married—that's one thing. What was he here for?—why the old story, Faith,—he wants the place." And Mrs. Derrick's eyes looked as if she wanted it too.
"Does he want it very much, mother?"
"Means to have it, child—and I don't feel as if I could live in any other house in Pattaquasset. So I thought maybe Mr. Stoutenburgh would make him hold off till next year, Faith," said Mrs. Derrick, a little smile coming back to her lips. "I guess I'll go up again after tea."
Faith coaxed her mother into the other room and gave her her tea daintily; revolving in her mind the while many things. When tea was over and Mrs. Derrick was again bent upon business, Faith ventured a question. "Mother, what do you suppose Squire Stoutenburgh can do to help us?"
"I can't tell, child,—he might talk Sam Deacon into letting us keep the house, at least. We've got to live somewhere, you know, Faith. It's no sort of use for me to talk to him,—he's as stiff as a crab tree—and I aint. I think I'll try."
"To-night, mother?"
"I thought I would."
Faith hesitated, putting the cups together. "Mother, I'll go. I dare say I shall do as well."
"I'm afraid you're tired too, pretty child," said Mrs. Derrick, but with evident relief at the very idea.
"I tired?—Never," said Faith. "You rest, mother—and don't fear," she added, kissing her. "I'll put on my bonnet—and be there and back again in a little while."
The summer twilight was falling grey, but Faith knew she could have a guardian to come home; and besides the road between the two houses was thickly built up and perfectly safe. The evening glow was almost gone, the stars faintly gleaming out in the blue above; a gentle sea breeze stirred the branches and went along with Faith on her errand. Now was this errand grievously unpleasing to Faith, simply because of the implication of thatone yearof reprieve which she must ask for. How should she manage it? But her way was clear; she must manage it as she could.
Spite of this bugbear, she had gone with a light free step all along her road, walking rather quick; for other thoughts had kept her company, and the image of her little flying packet shot once and again through her mind. At length she came to Mr. Stoutenburgh's gate, and Faith's foot paused. Light shone through the muslin curtains; and as her step neared the front door the broken sounds of voices and laughter came unwelcomely through. A most unnecessary formality her knock was, but one of the children came to the door and ushered her at once into the tea-room, where the family were waiting for their late tea. Mrs. Stoutenburgh—looking very pretty in her light summer dress—was half reclining on the sofa, professing that she was tired to death, but quite failing to excite any sympathy thereby in the group of children who had not seen her since morning. The Squire himself walked leisurely up and down, with his hands behind him, sometimes laughing at the children sometimes helping on their play. Through the room was the full perfume of roses, and the lamplight could not yet hide the departing glow of the western horizon. Into this group and atmosphere little Linda brought the guest, with the simple announcement, "Mother, it's Miss Faith."
"Miss Faith!" Mrs. Stoutenburgh exclaimed, starting up and dispersing the young ones,—"Linda, you shall have a lump of sugar!—My dear other child, how do you do?—and what sweet corner of your little heart sent you up here to-night? You have not—no, that can't be,—and you wouldn't come here if you had. But dear Faith, how are you?"—and she was rescued from the Squire and carried off to the sofa to answer at her leisure. With a sort of blushing, steadfast grace, which was common with her in the company of friends who were in her secret, Faith answered.
"And you haven't had tea yet,"—she said remorsefully. "I came to give Mr. Stoutenburgh some trouble—but I can do it in three minutes." Faith looked towards the Squire.
"My dear," he said, "it would take you three years!"
"But Faith," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh—"here comes the tea, and you can't go home without Mr. Stoutenburgh,—and nothing qualifies him for business like a contented state of his appetite!"
Faith laughed and sat down again, and then was fain upon persuasion to take a place at the table, which was a joyous scene enough. Faith did little but fill a place; her mind was busy with thoughts that began to come pressingly; she tried not to have it seem so.
"My dear," said the Squire as he helped Faith to raspberries, "what fine weather we have had, eh?"
"Beautiful weather!"—Faith responded with a little energy.
"Papa," said one of the children, "do you think Mr. Linden's had it fine too?"
"What tangents children's minds go off in!" observed Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "Faith! don't eat your raspberries without sugar,—how impatient you are. You used to preach patience to me when I was sick."
"I can be very patient, with these raspberries and no sugar," said Faith, wishing she could hide the bloom of her cheeks as easily as she hid that of the berries under the fine white shower.
"Poor child!" said her friend gently,—"I think you have need of all your patience." And her hands came softly about Faith's plate, removing encumbrances and adding dainties, with a sort of mute sympathy that at the moment could find no more etherial channel. "Mr. Stoutenburgh drove down to Quapaw the other day," she went on in a low voice, "to ask those fishing people what indications our land weather gave of the weather at sea; and—he couldn't half tell me about his visit when he came home," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, breaking short off in her account. "Linda, go get that glass of white roses and set it by Miss Faith,—maybe she'll take them home with her."
Faith looked at the white roses and smelled their sweetness; and then she said, "Who did you see, Mr. Stoutenburgh?—down at Quapaw?"
"None of the men, my dear—they were all away, but I saw half the rest of the village; and even the children knew what report the men had brought in, and whattheythought of the weather. Everybody had a good word to say about it, Miss Faith; and everybody—I do believe!" said the Squire reverently, "had been on their knees to pray for it. Jonathan Ling's wife said that was all they could ever do for him." Which pronoun, be it understood, did not refer to Jonathan Ling.
"They're Mr. Linden's roses, Miss Faith," said little Linda, who stood waiting for more marked admiration,—"do you like them? He always did."
Faith kissed the child, partly to thank her and to stop her lips, partly to hide her own which she felt were tale-telling.
"Where did you get the roses, Linda?"
"O off the bush in the garden. But Mr. Linden always picked one whenever he came, and sometimes he'd stop on his way to school, and just open the gate and get one of these white roses and then go away again. So we called it Mr. Linden's bush." Faith endeavoured to attend to her raspberries after this. When tea was over she was carried off into the drawing-room and the children were kept out.
"If you want me away too, Faith," Mrs. Stoutenburgh said as she arranged the lamp and the curtains, "I'll go."
"I don't want you to go, ma'am."—And then covering her trepidation under the simplest of grave exteriors, Faith spoke to the point. "It is mother's business. Squire Deacon has come home, Mr. Stoutenburgh."
"My dear," said the Squire, "I know he has. I heard it just before you came in. But he's married, Miss Faith."
"That don't content him," said Faith, "for he wants our farm."
"Rascal!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh in an emphatic under tone,—"the old claim, I suppose. What's the state of it now, my dear?"
"Nothing new, sir; he has a right to it, I suppose. The mortgage is owing, and we haven't been able to pay anything but the interest, and that must be a small rent for the farm." Faith paused. Mrs. Stoutenburgh was silent; looking from one to the other anxiously,—the Squire himself was not very intelligible.
"Yes"—he said,—"of course. Your poor father only lived to make the second payment. I don't know why I call him poor—he's rich enough now. But Sam Deacon!—a small rent? too much for him to get,—and too little.—Why my dear!" he said suddenly sitting up straight and facing round upon Faith, "I thought—What does your mother expect to do, Miss Faith?—has she seen Sam? What does he say?"
"He came to see her this afternoon, sir—he is bent upon having the place, mother says. And she don't like to leave the old house," Faith said slowly. "He will take the farm, I suppose,—but mother thought, perhaps, sir—if you would speak to Mr. Deacon, he would let us stay in the house—only the house without anything else—for another year. Mother wished it—I don't know that your speaking to him could do any good." Faith went straight through, but the rosy colour sprung and grew till its crimson reached her forehead. Not the less she went clearly through with what she had to say, her eyes only at the last words drooping. Mr. Stoutenburgh rose up with great energy and stood before her.
"My dear," he said, "he shall do it! If it was any other man I'd promise to make him do more, but Sam always must have some way of amusing himself, and I'm afraid I can't make this as expensive as the last one he tried. You tell your mother, Miss Faith, that she shall stay in her house till she'd rather go to yours. I hope that won't be more than a year, but if it is she shall stay."
"That's good, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife with a little clap of her hands.
Whether Faith thought it was 'good' might be a question; her eyes fell further, she did not offer to thank Mr. Stoutenburgh for his energetic kindness, nor to say anything. Yet Faith had seemingly more to say, for she made no motion to go. She sat quite still a few minutes, till raising her eyes fully to Mr. Stoutenburgh's face she said gravely, "Mother will feel very glad when I tell her that, sir."
"She may make herself easy But tell her, my dear," said the Squire, again forgetting in his earnestness what ground he was on,—"tell her she's on no account to tell Samwhyshe wants to stay. Will you recollect that, Miss Faith?"
Faith's eyes opened slightly. "I think he must know—or guess it, Mr. Stoutenburgh? Mother says she could hardly bear to live in any other house in Pattaquasset."
"My dear Miss Faith!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh,—"I mean!—why she don't want to stay any longer.That'swhat Sam mustn't know. I'm very stupid about my words, always."
Faith was again obliged to wait a few minutes before she could go on. Mrs. Stoutenburgh was the first to speak, for the Squire walked up and down, no doubt (mentally) attacking Mr. Deacon.
"I'm so glad!" she said, with the old dance of her eyes—and yet a little sigh too. "So glad and so happy, that I could cry,—I know I shall when the time comes. Dear Faith, do you feel quite easy about this other business now?"
"What, ma'am?—about Mr. Deacon?"
"Why yes!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing,—"isn't that the only one you've been uneasy about?"
"I am not uneasy now," said Faith. "But Mr. Stoutenburgh—if Mr. Deacon takes the farm back again, whom does the hay belong to, and the cattle, and the tools and farm things?"
"All that'son the land—all that's growing on it, goes with it. All that's under cover and moveable belongs to you."
"Then the hay in the barn is ours?"
"Everything in the barn."
"There's a good deal in the barn," said Faith with a brightening face. "You know the season has been early, sir, and our hay-fields lie well to the sun; and a great deal of the hay is in. Mr. Deacon will want some rent for the house I suppose,—and I guess there will be hay enough to pay it, whatever it is. For I can't sell my cows!—" she added laughing a little.
Her two friends—the Squire on the floor and his wife on the sofa—looked at her and then at each other.
"My dear," the Squire began, "I want to ask you a question. And beforeI do, let me tell you—which perhaps you don't know—just what rightI"—
"Oh Mr. Stoutenburgh!" cried his wife, "do please hush!—you'll say something dreadful."
"Not a bit of it—" said the Squire,—"I know what to say this time, my dear, and when to stop. I wanted to tell you, Miss Faith, that I am your regularly appointed guardian—therefore if I ask questions you will understand why." But what more on that subject the Squire might have said, and said not, was left to conjecture. Faith looked at him, wondering, colouring, doubting.
"I never heard of it before, sir," she said.
"You shouldn't sayregularly, Mr. Stoutenburgh," said his wife,—"Faith will think she is to be under your control."
"I shouldn't saylegally," said the Squire, "and I didn't. No she aint under my control. I only mean, Miss Faith," he said turning to her, "that I am appointed to look after your interests, till somebody who is better qualified comes to do it."
"There—Mr. Stoutenburgh,—don't go any further," said his wife.
"Not in that direction," said the Squire. "Now my dear, if Sam Deacon will amuse himself in this way, as I said, what will you do? Do the farm and the house about counterbalance each other most years?"
Faith never knew how she separated the two parts of her nature enough at this moment to be practical, but she answered. "We have been able to pay the interest on the mortgage, sir, every year. That's all. Mother has not laid up anything."
The Squire took a turn or two up and down the room, then came and stood before her again. "My dear," he said, "you can't tell just yet what your plans will be, so I won't ask you to-night, but you had better let me deal with Sam Deacon, and the new tenant, and the hay, and everything else. And you may draw upon me for something more solid, to any amount you please."
"Something more solid than yourself!—O Mr. Stoutenburgh!" his wife said, though her eyes were bright with more than one feeling.
Faith was silent a minute, and then gave Mr. Stoutenburgh a full view of those steady eyes that some people liked and some did not carejust soto meet.
"No, sir!—" she said with a smile and also a little wistful look of the gratitude she did not speak,—"if the hay will pay the rent, I don't want anything else. Mother and I can do very well. We will be very much obliged to you to manage Mr. Deacon for us—and the hay. I think I can manage the rest. I shall keep the cows and make butter,"—she said with a laughing flash of the eye.
"O delicious!" cried Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "(I mean the butter,Faith)—but will you let me have it?"
"You don't want it," said Faith.
"I do!—nobody makes such butter—I should eat my breakfast with a new appetite, and so would Sam. We never can get butter enough when he's in the house. I'll send down for it three times a week—how often do you churn, Faith?"
Faith came close up to her and kissed her as she whispered laughingly,"Every day!"
"Then I'll send every day!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh clapping her hands. "And then I shall hear of you once in a while.—Ungrateful child, you haven't been here before since—I suppose it won't do to say when," she added, kissing Faith on both cheeks. "I shall tell Mr. Linden it is not benevolent to pet you so much."
"But my dear—my dear—" said the Squire from one to the other. "Well, well,—I'll talk to you another time, Miss Faith,—I can't keep up with more than one lady at once. You and Mrs. Stoutenburgh have gone on clean ahead of me."
"What's the matter, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith. "I would like to hear it now, for there is something I want settled."
"What's that?" said the Squire.
"Will you please go on, sir?"
"I guess I'll hear you first," said the Squire. "You seem to know just what you want to say, Miss Faith, and I'm not sure that I do."
"You said we had gone on ahead of you, sir. Shall we go back now?"
"Why my dear," said the Squire smiling, "I thought you two were settling up accounts and arrangements rather fast, that's all. If they are the beginning and end,that'svery well; but if they're only premonitory symptoms, that again's different."
"And not 'very well'?" said Faith, waiting.
"Not very," said Mr. Stoutenburgh shaking his head.
"How should it be better, sir?"
"My dear, in general, what is needless can be spared."
"I don't know what I am going to do, Mr. Stoutenburgh. I am going to do nothing needless, not wilfully needless. But I am going to do itwithout help." She stood before him, with perfect gentleness but with as clear determination in both look and manner, making her meaning known. Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed, the Squire stood looking at her in a smiling perplexity. Finally went straight to the point.
"Miss Faith, it is doubly needless that you should do anything more than you've been doing—everybody knows that's enough. In the first place, my dear, you are your father's child—and that's all that need be said, till my purse has a hole at both ends. In the next place—shall I tell her what she is in the next place, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?"
"I fancy she knows," said his wife demurely.
"Well," said the Squire, "the next place is the first place, after all, and I haven't the right to do much but take care of her. But my dear, I have it under hand and seal to take better care than that."
"Than what, sir?"—said Faith with very deep colour, but unchanged bearing.
"I don't know yet," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "any more than you know what you are going to do. Than to let you do anything that would grieve your dear friend and mine. If I could shew you the letter you'd understand, Miss Faith, but I'm not good at repeating. 'To take care of you as lie would'—that was part of it. And because I can't half carry out such instructions, is no sign I shouldn't do it a quarter." And the Squire stood as firm on his ground as Faith on hers.
No, not quite; for in her absolute gentleness there was a power of intent expressed, which rougher outlines could but give with less emphasis. The blood spoke for her eloquently before Faith could find any sort of words to speak for herself, brought now by more feelings than one; yet still she stood before the Squire, drooping her head a little, a soft statue of immoveability. Only once, just before she spoke, both Faith's hands went up to her brow to push the hair back; a most unusual gesture of agitation. But her look and her words were after the same steady fashion as before, aggravated by a little wicked smile, and Faith's voice sounded for sweetness like silver bells.
"You can't do it, Mr. Stoutenburgh!—not that way. Take care of me every other way;—but I'll not have—of that sort—a bit of help."—
The Squire looked at her with a mixture of amusement and perplexity.
"Pin to follow suit—" he said,—"but then I don't just know what Mr.Linden would do in such a case! Can you tell me, Miss Faith?"
"It is no matter—it would not make any difference."
"What would not?" said the Squire innocently.
"Anything that he could do, sir;—so you have no chance." She coloured gloriously, but she smiled at him too with her last words.
"Well, Miss Faith," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "I have my doubts as to the correctness of that first statement; but I'll tell you whatIshall do, my refractory young lady. If you set about anything outside the limits, I'll do my best to thwart you,—there!"
If Faith was not a match for him, there was no meaning in the laugh of her dark eye. But she only bade Mrs. Stoutenburgh an affectionate good night, took her bunch of white roses and Mr. Stoutenburgh's arm and set out to go home.
Faith put her roses in water and listened half a minute to their strange silent messages. But after that she did a great deal of thinking. If all went well, and Mr. Linden got home safe from abroad,—andthisyear were all she had to take care for, it was a very little matter to keep the year afloat, and very little matter, in her estimation, whatever she might have to do for the purpose. But those "ifs" no mortal could answer for. Faith did not look much at that truth, but she acted upon it; prayed over her thoughts and brought her plans into shape in very humble consciousness of it. And at the early breakfast the next morning she began to unfold them; which as Mrs. Derrick did not like them, led on to a long talk; but Faith as usual had her way.
After some preliminary arrangements, and late in the day, she set off upon a long walk to Miss Bezac's. The slant beams of the summer sun were again upon the trim little house as Faith came up towards it. Things were changed since she was there before! changed a good deal from the gay, joyous playtime of that visit. Mr. Linden in Europe, and she—"It is very well," thought Faith; "it might not have been good for me to have too much of such a time. Next year"—
Would if it brought joy, bring also an entering upon real life-work. Faith knew it; she had realized long before with a thought of pain, that this summons to Europe had perhaps cut short her last time of absolute holiday pleasure. Mr. Linden could hardly now be more than a few days in Pattaquasset before "next year" should come—and Faith did not stop to look at that; she never thought of it three minutes together. But life-work looked to her lovely;—what did not? Even the little pathway to Miss Bezac's door was pleasant. She was secretly glad of that other visit now, which had made this one so easy; though yet a sympathetic blush started as she went in.
"Why Faith!" said Miss Bezac,—"you're theveryperson I was thinking of, and the very one I wanted to see! though I always do want to see you, for that matter, and don't often get what I want. Then I don't generally want much. But what a beautiful visit we had last time! Do you know I've been conjuring ever since how your dress should be made? What'll it be, to begin with?—I always do like to begin with that—and it's bothered me a good deal—not knowing it, I mean. I couldn't arrange so well about the making. Because making white satin's one thing, and muslin's another,—and lace is different from 'em both—and indeed from most other things except spider's webs." All which pleasant and composing sentiments were uttered while Miss Bezac was clearing a chair for Faith, and putting her in it, and laying her various pieces of work together.
"I shouldn't be the least bit of help to you," said Faith who couldn't help laughing. "Can't it wait?"
"Why it'll have to," said Miss Bezac; "he said it must,—but that's no reason I should. I always like a reason for everything. It took me an age and a quarter to find out why Miss Essie De Staff always will wear aprons. She wears 'em out, too, in more ways than one, but that's good for me. Only there's so many ways of making them that I get in a puzzle. Now this one, Faith—would you work it with red flowers or green?—I said black, but she will have colours. You've got a good colour to-day—O don't you want some bread and milk?" said Miss Bezac, dropping the apron.
"No, thank you!" said Faith laughing again,—"not to-day. I should work that with green, Miss Bezac."
"But I'm afraid green won't do, with black above and black below," said Miss Bezac. "Two sides to things you know, Faith,—aprons and all the rest. I'd a great mind to work it with both, and then she couldn't say she'd rather have had 'tother. What things Ihaveworked in my day!—but my day's twilight now, and my eyes find it out."
"Do you have more to do than you can manage, generally?" said Faith.
"Why no, child, because I never take any more,—that's the way not to have things—troubles or aprons. I could have my hands full of both, but what's the use?—when one hasn't eyes—for sewing or crying. Mrs. Stoutenburgh comes, and Mrs. Somers, and Miss Essie—and the landlord, and sometimes I let 'em leave me a job, and sometimes I don't,—send 'em, dresses, and all, off to Quilipeak."
"Then I'll tell you what you shall give me to-day—instead of bread and milk;—some of the work that you would send off. Don't you remember," said Faith, smiling quietly at Miss Bezac's eyes,—"you once promised to teach me to embroider waistcoats?"
"Why yes!" said Miss Bezac—"and so I will. But, my dear, are you sure he would wear it?—and after all, isn't it likely he'll get everything of that sort he wants, in Paris? And then the size!—who's to tell what that should be? To be sure you could do the fronts, and have them made up afterwards—and of course hewouldwear anything you made.—I'll go right off and get my patterns."
Faith's confusion was startled. It was Miss Bezac's turn to look at her. She caught hold of the seamstress and brought her back to listening at least.
"Stop!—Miss Bezac!—you don't understand me. I want work!—I want work. I am not talking of making anything for anybody!—" Faith's eyes were truthful now, if ever they were.
"Well then—how can you work, if you won't make anything for anybody? Want work, Faith?—you don't mean to say all that story about Sarn Deacon'strue?Do you know," said Miss Bezac, dropping into a chair and folding her hands, "when I heard that man had gone out of town, I said to myself, it would be a mercy if he never came back!"—which was the severest censure Miss Bezac ever passed upon anybody. "I really did," she went on,—"and now he's come, and I s'pose I've got to saythat's a mercy too—and this,—though I wouldn't believe it last night."
"Then you have heard it?"
"My ears did, and they're pretty good ears too,—though I do get out of patience with them now and then."
"It's true," said Faith, "and it's nothing very dreadful. Mother and I have nothing to live upon but what I can make by butter; so I thought I would learn and take work of you, if you had it for me. I could soon understand it; and then you can let people bring you as much as they will—what you cannot do, I will do. I could think of nothing so pleasant;—no way to make money, I mean."
For a minute Miss Bezac sat quite still,—then she roused up.
"Nothing to live upon but butter!"—she said,—"well that's not much,—at least if there's ever so much of it you want something else. And what you want you must have—if you can get it. And I can get you plenty of work—and it's a good thing to understand this sort of work too, for he might carry you off to some random place where they wear calico just as they can put it on—and that wouldn't suit you, nor him neither. I don't believethis'll suit him though—and it don't me, not a bit. I'm as proud as a Lucifer match for anybody I love. But I'll make you proud of your work in no time. What'll you do first? embroider or stitch or cut out or baste or fit?"
"What you please—what you think best. But Miss Bezac, what are you 'proud' about?"
"O I've my ways and means, like other folks," said Miss Bezac. "And you can do something more striking than aprons for people that don't need 'em. But I'm not going to give youthisapron, Faith—I sha'n't have her wearing your work all round town, and none the wiser. See—this is nice and light and pretty—like the baby it's for,—you like green, don't you? and so will your eyes."
"I'd as lieve have Miss Essie wear my work as eat my butter," said Faith. "But," she added more gravely,—"I think that what God gives me to do, I ought to be proud to do,—and I am sure I am willing. He knows best."
"Yes, yes, my dear—I believe that,—and so I do most things you say," answered Miss Bezac, bringing forth from the closet a little roll of green calico. "Now do you like this?—because if you don't, say so."
"I'll take this," said Faith, "and the next time I'll take the apron. I must do just as much as I can, Miss Bezac; and you must let me. Would you rather have the apron done first? I want Miss Essie's apron, Miss Bezac!"
"Well you can't have it," said Miss Bezac,—"and what you can't, you can't—all the world over. Begin slow and go on fast—that's the best way. And I'll take the best care of you!—lay you up in lavender,—like my work when it's done and isn't gone home."
So laughingly they parted, and Faith went home with her little bundle of work, well contented.
A very few days had seen the household retrenchments made. Cindy was gone, and Mr. Skip was only waiting for a "boy" to come. Mother and daughter drew their various tools and conveniences into one room and the kitchen, down stairs, to have the less to take care of; abandoning the old eating-room except as a passage-way to the kitchen; and taking their meals, for greater convenience, in the latter apartment.
Faith did not shut up her books without some great twinges of pain; but she said not one word on the matter. She bestowed on her stitching and on her housework and on her butter the diligent zeal which used to go into French rules and philosophy. But Mrs. Stoutenburgh had reckoned without her host, for there was a great deal more of the butter than she could possibly dispose of; and Judge Harrison's family and Miss De Staff's became joint consumers and paid the highest price for it, that Faith would take. But this is running ahead of the story.
Some days after Faith's appeal to Mr. Stoutenburgh had passed, before the Squire presented himself to report progress. He found both the ladies at work in the sitting-room, looking very much as usual, except that there was a certain not inelegant disposition of various pieces of muslin and silk and ribbon about the room which carried the appearance of business.
"What rent will Mr. Deacon have, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith looking up from her needle.
"My dear, he'll have what he can get," said the Squire, "but whatthat'll be, Miss Faith, he and I haven't just made up our minds."
"How much ought it to be, sir, do you think?"
"Nothing at all," said the Squire,—"not a cent."
"Do you think not, sir?" said Faith doubtfully.
"Not a cent!" the Squire repeated,—"and I told him so, and said he might throw the barn into the bargain and not hurt himself."
"Will he agree to that, Mr. Stoutenburgh?—I mean about the house. We can pay for it."
"My dear, I hope to make him agree to that, and more too. So just let the hay stand, and the house, and the barn, and everything else for the present. I'll tell you time enough—if quarter day must come. And by the way, talking of quarters, there's one of a lamb we killed yesterday,—I told Tim to leave it in the kitchen. How does your ice hold out?"
"Do you want some, sir?" said Faith, in whose eyes there shone a soft light the Squire could be at no loss to read.
"No my dear, I don't—though Mrs. Stoutenburgh does tell me sometimes to keep cool. But I thought maybeyoudid. Do you know, Miss Essie De Staff never sees me now if she can help it—what do you suppose is the reason?"
"I don't think there can be any, sir."
"Must be!" said the Squire,—"always is a reason for every fact. You know what friends we used to be,—it was always, 'Hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a splendid fellow!—My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me know—will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for an answer.
Faith found that sewing and housework and butter-making took not only her hands but her minutes, and on these little minute wheels the days glided off very fast. She had plenty of fresh air, withal, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh would coax her into a horseback ride, or the Squire take her off in his little wagon; or Mrs. Derrick and Jerry go with her down to the shore for clams and salt water. The sea breeze was more company than usual, this summer.
By the time August days came, there came also a letter from Europe; and thereafter the despatches were as regular and as frequent as the steamers. But they brought no special news as to the point of coming home. Mrs. Iredell lingered on in the same uncertain state, neither worse nor better,—there was no news to send. Everything else the letters had; and though Faith might miss that, she could not complain.
So the summer days slipped away peacefully; and when the mother and daughter sat sewing together in the afternoon, (for Mrs. Derrick often took some little skirt or sleeve) nobody would have guessed why the needles were at work.
There was one remarkable thing about the boy Reuben had found to supply Mr. Skip's place—he was never visible. Nor audible either, for that matter, except that Faith at her own early rising often heard the wood-saw industriously in motion. He was not to sleep in the house for the first month,—that had been agreed; but whether he slept anywhere seemed a matter of doubt. A doubt Faith resolved to set at rest; and one August morning, while the birds were a-twitter yet with their first getting up and the sun had not neared the horizon, Faith crossed the yard to the woodshed and stood in the open doorway,—the morning light shewing the soft outlines of her figure in a dark print dress, and her white ruffles, and gleaming on her faultlessly soft and bright hair.
The woodshed was in twilight yet; its various contents shewing dimly, the phoebe who had built her nest under the low roof just astir, but the wood work was going on briskly. Not indeed under the saw—that lay idle; but with the sort of noiseless celerity which was natural to him, Reuben Taylor was piling the sticks of this or yesterday's cutting: the slight chafing of the wood as it fell into place chiming with the low notes of a hymn tune which Faith well remembered to have heard Mr. Linden sing. She did not stir, but softly, as she stood there, her voice joined in.
For a minute Reuben did not hear her,—then in some pause of arrangement he heard, and turned round with a start and flush that for degree might have suited one who was stealing wood instead of piling it. But he did not speak—nor even thought to say good morning; only pushed the hair back from his forehead and waited to receive sentence.
"Reuben!"—said Faith, stepping in the doorway. And she said not another word; but in her eyes and her lips, even in her very attitude as she stood before him, Reuben Taylor might read it all!—her knowledge for whose love he was doing that work, her powerlessness of any present means of thanks, and the existence of a joint treasury of returned affection that would make itself known to him some day, if ever the chance were. The morning sun gleamed in through the doorway on her face, and Reuben could see it all there. He had raised his eyes at the first sound of her voice, but they fell again, and his only answer was a very low spoken "Good morning, Miss Faith."
Faith sat down on a pile of cut sticks and looked up at him.
"Reuben—what are you about?"
"Putting these sticks out of the way, Miss Faith"—with a half laugh then.
"I shall tell Mr. Linden of you," (gravely.)
"I didn't mean you should have a chance, Miss Faith."
"Now you are caught and found—do you know what your punishment will be?"
Reuben looked up again, but did not venture to guess.
"You will be obliged to come in and take a cup of coffee with me every morning."
"O that's not necessary!" Reuben said with a relieved face,—"thank you very much, Miss Faith."
"It is necessary," said Faith gravely;—"and you are not to thank me for what you don't like."
"It was partly for what I do like, ma'am," said Reuben softly pitching up a stick of hickory.
"It's so pleasant to have you do this, Reuben," said Faith, watching him, "that I can't tell you how pleasant it is; but you must drink my coffee, Reuben, or—I will not burn your wood! You know what Mr. Linden would make you do, Reuben." Faith's voice lowered a little. Reuben did not dispute the commands so urged, though a quick glance said that her wish was enough.
"But dear Reuben, who's coming when you're gone?"
"Would you like Dromy Tuck, Miss Faith?—but I don't know that you ever saw him. He's strong, and honest—he's not very bright. I'll find somebody." And so the matter ended.
August went on,—Reuben sawed his last stick of wood and eat his last breakfast at Mrs. Derrick's, and then set forth for Quilipeak, to begin his new life there. The little settlement at Quapaw was not alone in feeling his loss,—Mrs. Derrick and Faith missed him every day. One of Reuben's last doings in Pattaquasset, was the giving Dromy Tuck in charge to Phil Davids.
"Look after him a little, Phil," he said, "and see that he don't go to sleep too much daytimes. He means to go straight, but he wants help about it; and I don't want Mrs. Derrick to be bothered with him." Which request, enforced as it was by private considerations, favoured Dromy with as strict a censorship as he desired.